The Way I Feel Today
by Diamond-04
Summary: For the Sherlock BBC Kink Meme. Prompt: Sometime before series one, Sherlock detoxed. And that, my dear friends, is a horribly ugly thing to experience or witness. So can we have real, hardcore, fluffless, awful withdrawal? With all the nitty gritty yuck?
1. Chapter 1

Thursday

Mycroft was not used to his brother visiting, so when Sherlock appeared at his doorstep unannounced one afternoon he knew there was something the matter with him. Sherlock looked even more weary than usual and Mycroft noticed the red on his eyes, even though his brother was making an effort not to make eye contact.

-I know you may not want to have anything to do with this, Mycroft, but I am in need of your assistance.

As he spoke he walked pass Mycroft, right into the house, as if he was in a hurry to get somewhere. When he got into the living room he headed to the couch but then decided he wouldn't sit down just yet. He gave one look at his older brother and then resumed his walking, this time up and down the room. As he walked his hands moved from his pockets, through his hair and back into his pockets in a slip of a second. By this point Mycroft was getting as anxious as the younger man. He tried to keep his composure but the scenarios floating through his head made his voice tremble a little.

-Sherlock, for the love of God, you have to tell me what is going on.

Sherlock finally settled for a spot in the room and began speaking again.

-This… DI Lestrade. Are you familiar with him?

Mycroft nodded in approval. He was, after all, familiar with every person in a semi-important position in a 5 mile radius.

-I've worked with him in a few cases. He had heard of my… abilities and consulted me a couple of times when things weren't going as smoothly as the police would have wished. He's now offered me a job. Well, not a real job, but something somehow more permanent, as a consulting detective for Scotland Yard.

Sherlock made a pause, but Mycroft knew he wasn't quite finished yet. Their eyes met again and Mycroft saw it. He had been crying. It had been ages since he had last seen his brother cry, probably since they were children. And now there he stood, a grown man but still his little brother, fragile looking again, and Mycroft had to contain himself from throwing his arms around him right there and then.

-With one condition.

Then Sherlock made a longer pause, and bit his lower lip. Then, with a nervous laugh, he spit out the words as if they had been burning his tongue.

-I have to wean off cocaine.

Mycroft felt his heart miss a beat, but didn't have time to say anything; Sherlock had resumed his walking and was now speaking faster than before.

-I know what you're thinking, I tried to do it on my own, but it's no good. I… It can't be done. I need a more efficient solution. And I'm not going into a clinic where they are making me draw pictures of my feelings and make flowers out of clay, Mycroft, I will not.

He couldn't explain why, but it bothered Mycroft that Sherlock couldn't say 'I can't do it' and went with 'it can't be done' instead. He tried not to look too disappointed, this were good news, after all.

-How much time do you need?

-A week, perhaps a little longer.

-Don't be dense, Sherlock, that is not even enough to get pass the physical symptoms, what are you going to do when your head is sober and clear and you need to feel the euphoria again? You are not going to have cases all the time, Sherlock; you need to learn to deal with…

His brother cut him short, his tone not so much that of a wounded child anymore, but his more usual defiant, insolent one

-I'm just staying here for the detox, that's all I need. I'll deal with the rest on my own. Do you agree or not?

Mycroft sighed as silently as he could manage and replied

-Very well. You may stay.

Friday

The first night went by without so much as a minor incident. Mycroft had, of course, taken every precaution imaginable to keep his brother comfortable. He had spoken to the most renowned physicians in the matter and made sure he followed every order. Still he had not much to worry about that night.

On Friday, Sherlock awoke early, looking bad but not too terrible, it seemed. He sat across his brother on the breakfast table and started eating without saying a word. Mycroft dared not ask him directly how he was feeling, for it appeared that his brother was not in the best of moods.

-Did you manage to sleep well last night?

Sherlock raised his eyebrows but didn't look up from his plate to meet his brother's gaze.

-Well, that's a stupid question, even for you, Mycroft.

Mycroft had checked on Sherlock several times during the night, and was certain that he had slept quite soundly, at least so it had seemed, but he didn't want to alter his mood any more. He just ignored the comment and poured him a large glass of water.

-You need to drink lots of liquids, Sherlock; it'll help your body get rid of the drug quicker.

Sherlock grabbed the glass and took a drink. Immediately after he stood up and, glass in hand, went towards the guest bedroom again.

-I'm going back to bed. Don't bother me.

After entering the room, he slammed the door shut.

Mycroft resisted the urge to follow him that instant. Perhaps, he thought, Sherlock could sleep some of it off while he was dealing with work. He had taken a few days off from the office, naturally, but he still could take care of some business from home. He wouldn't usually work from the dinning, but it was the closest room to his brother and he would be able to hear if he needed his help.

He had been able to work more than he had expected, within about two hours, however, he decided it was time to go and check on Sherlock.

His brother lay asleep on his side, curled into a ball. At first sight it looked like he was sleeping peacefully, but on a closer look, Mycroft saw his eyeballs move swiftly underneath the leads. If he was dreaming, he thought, it wouldn't be strange that he'd have nightmares. He didn't want to wake him quite yet, so he sat on a chair and waited. Soon enough, Sherlock's body began shivering as if in fear and he started mumbling in his sleep. Mycroft came to the decision of waking him up, before things got any worse. It took more effort than he thought, and he had to shake Sherlock with more energy than he would have liked to use. Opening his eyes, Sherlock grabbed onto his brother's arms, startled for a second. His eyes were wild with confusion, and it took him some time to realize where he was.

-Sherlock, look at me, look at me. It was just a dream, everything is fine.

Sherlock's breath was quicker than normal and his body was covered in sweat.

-Come, take a shower, you'll feel better.

They had an early lunch, since it was clear that Sherlock's appetite had increased already and the doctor had told Mycroft that his brother needed plenty of rest but also plenty of food. The day went on fairly normal, with Mycroft trying his best to entertain his bother and Sherlock non-responsively watching nothing on TV while picking at his nails and cuticles.

-Mycroft, for the love of God, will you please, please just shut up already and turn down that damn heat, I'm boiling up!

-The doctor says cocaine is water soluble, if you drink plenty of liquids and sweat, the process will be quicker.

Sherlock sulkily took another sip from his glass (that Mycroft made sure was always full) and went back to compulsively changing the channel.

By night Sherlock had become severely agitated and started walking up and down the living room while muttering to himself. At dinner he'd tap his foot and ran his hands through his hair at what it appeared to be choreographed intervals. Mycroft tried to make small talk and even got a smile or two out of his brother. By the time dinner was over, Sherlock announced he had a splitting headache and that he was exhausted and without more ado went to bed.


	2. Chapter 2

Saturday

Mycroft was suddenly awoken by the noise in his brother bedroom. It had been three days since Sherlock had had his last fix and Mycroft knew withdrawal would be almost intolerable by now, so he wasn't really surprised his brother was up. He got up as soon as he was able to untangle himself off his sheets and went into his bedroom.

-Sherlock Holmes, what on earth do you think you are doing?

Sherlock's bedroom was in a deplorable state. He had somehow managed to get the top of his pajamas on the ceiling fan, thrown a lamp to the floor -where it lay shattered- and, apparently, punched a wall, judging by the droplets of blood on the white paint. Sherlock himself didn't look much better. He was pale and covered in sweat, his entire body shaking furiously, his eyes wide and red and whimpering through bluish lips.

-I'm leaving.

Mycroft tried to remain as composed as possible as his brother got hold of his belongings and carelessly threw them inside the bag Mycroft had his assistant fetch for him at Sherlock's place earlier.

-No, you are not.

-Just watch me.

-Sherlock, you asked me for my help and you will get it, whether you still want it or not.

-I don't. I don't want it anymore, and I'm leaving Mycroft, let me through.

Sherlock had grabbed the bag and was now standing two feet away from his older brother, with what wanted to be a defiant look on his face, but was significantly softened by the tears forming in his eyes. Mycroft sighed.

-This will get physical if you want it to, and in this sorry state of yours you are not going to get pass me, Sherlock. Not to mention security. Or the dogs.

Sherlock was breathing so fast and loudly, Mycroft feared he may faint.

-Mycroft. Let me go. Please.

He was not able to contain the tears anymore, and they were now falling in streams down his cheeks.

-Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock, I don't want you to beg. Go back to bed and I'll make you a cup of tea…

-I don't want tea! Fuck, Mycroft! I _need_ something!

He violently threw the bag to the floor. Mycroft did not dare to move.

-You said you'd help me and you are not doing anything! Just let me go!

He sat on the bed and covered his face his both his hands. He started crying bitterly while cursing at his brother.

-Fuck you, Mycroft; you are so full of bullshit! I don't care what you say, I'm leaving.

He stood up but Mycroft was too quick for him. With all the force he could gather he took his brother by the arms and sat him right back on the bed.

-No, you are _not_. This is what will happen. I will make a few calls and get you some medication. You are going to be a good boy and not cause me any more trouble. And in the meantime you are going back to bed, understood?

Sherlock did not answer; he just sat there looking at the floor, sobbing miserably and biting his lower lip. Mycroft knew a victory when he saw one, so he softened his tone a bit.

-Sherlock?

-…Yes.

-Very good. Now, let me take a look at that hand.

An hour later Sherlock was lying in bed, as still as he could manage and his brother was counting pills by his side.

-I'm not going to feel any better on stupid _benzos_, Mycroft.

-It's what the doctor suggested; it'll calm you down a bit. Here

As reluctant as he seemed, Sherlock did not hesitate to put the pills into his mouth and swallow them down.

-It'll not take them too long to start working. Try to sleep, I'll be right here.

He turned off the lights and sat on a chair next to the bed. It was going to be a long night and Mycroft knew it. The first of many.

A few minutes later, Sherlock's voiced emerged in a whisper.

-Mycroft?

-Yes?

-I'm sorry.

Mycroft felt his brother's hand on his. He held it tight and answered

-I'm sorry too.

Saturday (later)

Mycroft woke up with the sun hitting him on the face. He had apparently slept for hours sitting on that chair and his neck was killing him. While he rubbed it with one hand, he turned his head to look at his brother, only he wasn't on the bed. His heart dropped. He jumped from the chair and was about to shoot out of the room to look for him when he heard a noise coming from the bathroom. When he looked inside he saw Sherlock sprawled on the floor, holding onto the toilet, his face almost buried in it.

-Are you sick?

-Wow, Mycroft, that's a wonderful deduction. Why don't you become a detective too?

He was almost cut mid-sentence by wave of nausea, but he managed to hold it in until he was finished.

-Were you able to sleep at all?

-A little. I had nightmares when the meds wore off. You, on the other hand, slept quite well, it seems.

He turned to meet Mycroft's gaze and he saw his little brother looked worse than he had ever seen him. He was about to tell him he should have just shaken him, but changed his mind.

-I'm sorry I didn't wake up.

For an answer Sherlock growled and went back to gagging inside the toilet.

-Can't I have some more pills now, please?

Mycroft checked his watch.

-It's not time for your next dose yet. You need to have a shower first, and breakfast, if you think you are able to eat. It'll be time soon enough.

-I hate you so.

-I know. I'll be in the kitchen.

Mycroft checked the pills were still in his pocket and went off to serve breakfast. About half an hour later a soaked-wet Sherlock emerged from his room.

-You managed to take that shower, I gather. Sit down and try to eat something.

Sherlock looked as if he was going to fall down dead any time now.

-How are you feeling?

-Like dropping dead.

-You look like it.

-Thanks.

At that moment Sherlock's phone started ringing in the room. Mycroft didn't waste a second and went to answer it. If it was one of those dealers Sherlock frequented, worryingly wondering where his little brother was, he was going to have them beheaded. With a kitchen knife.

-Who is this?

-Sherlock?

-This is Sherlock's brother, Mycroft. What do you want?

-Oh, hello. This is DI Lestrade. I don't know if Sherlock's told you about me at all…

Mycroft sighed in relief.

-So you are the man who is putting my little brother through all of this. I'm pretty sure he would take enormous pleasure in punching you on the face right now, but as for me… well, thank you.

-What do you mean?

-He is in my house now. Detoxing.

-Are you serious?

-I always am.

The DI made a long pause before continuing.

-Do you mind… do you mind if I visit him? Just a minute.

Mycroft didn't like strangers randomly stepping in his house, let alone Sherlock's friends… But this time he'd make an exception. He'd have him checked at the door anyway, just in case.

-Just a minute. Write down the address.


	3. Chapter 3

Saturday (just after midday)

The morning had finally come to an end and they were both sitting in the living room again. Mycroft with his computer and a bunch of files next to him, reading day-old documents he should have signed the day before, and Sherlock trying to watch television with a lit cigarette in his hand, that his brother had allowed him to have when he didn't know what else to do. Sherlock was an awful sight, and even with medications to help him Mycroft could clearly see Sherlock was having a horrible time. His thin fingers would shiver when he took the cigarette to his mouth, and ash fell everywhere, from the couch and the carpet to Sherlock himself, who didn't seem to notice or care. The white of his skin made a shocking contrast with the blood gathered in his eyes. He even looked smaller, holding his knees to his chest to control the shivering.

-For God's sake, Mycroft quit staring at me and just do whatever it is that you're doing in that damned computer.

Mycroft snapped out of his thoughts. He hadn't noticed he had been staring at Sherlock for so long. He was so unfocused. He didn't say anything, though he wanted to. He wanted to tell him that he just wished there was something else he could do to comfort him. That he was so distracted by his state that he didn't even know what he was reading anymore. That he hated himself for not being there when he first started using.

-You are fine.

-I'm sorry?

-It's fine Mycroft; you are doing just fine, stop sulking. I'm the one who is going throw withdrawal. Stop looking so miserable, it's depressing.

Right then the doorbell rang. Someone, probably a maid, must have opened the door, for a minute later, Lestrade made an appearance in the living room. He seemed a little nervous to be there and with reason; Sherlock didn't look too thrilled to have a visitor, to say the least. Mycroft stood up to shake his hand.

-Ah, Detective Inspector. Welcome.

-Mr. Holmes, a pleasure. Sherlock, I…

Sherlock didn't get his eyes off of the TV but cut the DI before he could go on.

-Stop it. Don't say anything and don't look at me. The look of pity in your eyes is even worse than Mycroft's, and that's saying something.

Lestrade didn't looked too baffled, Mycroft thought, so he was probably used to his brother's moods, which was a good thing, considering that Sherlock sober wasn't an easy thing to deal with.

-Sorry. I just came to see how you were doing; I'll leave in a minute. I just wanted to tell you that I'm glad you are doing this, Sherlock. And I'm glad you are ok.

Sherlock sat up straight and stared at the DI with an intensity that was petrifying. Mycroft was surprised he had not flung out of the house already, out of shear fear of his brother. Sherlock put out his cigarette on the ashtray.

-I'm not _ok_, I'm nowhere near ok, I'm a bloody mess and if I could coordinate my movements any better I would punch you right on the nose.

-I told you.

Lestrade just smiled at Mycroft's comment and shook his head.

-Fine, you are not ok. But you will be, and _then_ you are going to have to thank me.

He put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, who muttered a 'maybe' and turned his eyes back to the TV.

Mycroft showed Lestrade the way out and returned to his brother. He had liked this man; he obviously had more guts than most.

By the time he came back, Sherlock was holding out his hand.

-I'm not giving you any more cigarettes Sherlock, or pills for that matter. You've had had enough for today.

Sherlock closed his eyes pinched the bridge of his nose with his other hand.

-Mycroft I do not have even half of the energy required to argue with you, just give me a cigarette or I will take it.

Mycroft tried to think of a way out. He didn't want Sherlock to have any more cigarettes, at least not this early. It would be jumping from one addiction to another. But what he _really_ didn't want was having to fight his brother. He was emotionally worn already; he didn't need to be physically worn too.

-Later. We'll save it for later. After dinner, ok?

Sherlock now directed his death-glare towards Mycroft.

-_Fine._

Mycroft smiled, relieved, and sat besides his brother. Without much decorum he put his arm around his shoulders. He wasn't even thinking. He just needed to feel Sherlock's warm skin close to him.

-What do you think you are doing exactly?

-Oh, shut up and come here. It's not like we haven't done this before, now is it?

Sherlock's body was stone rigid at first, but soon enough he started to relax. Before he knew it, his head was laying on Mycroft's lap and his hair being stroked by long, gentle fingers.

-I just miss it so much, Mycroft. I want it so bad, so bad...

-I know. But it'll get better. You'll get better. I promise.


	4. Chapter 4

Wednesday

Sherlock actually looked significantly better than a couple of days before. He had stopped shaking uncontrollably and was even able to wear his clothes without sweating through them. The sleep problems continued but had drastically lessened; he would still have trouble falling asleep and waking up, but he had had fewer nightmares than at the beginning. He had even put on a couple of pounds, due to his increased appetite and not-so-frequent nausea, which added to his general state of well-being.

Mycroft was feeling optimistic that his brother would actually get his act together this time, but didn't want to delude himself into false hope. He knew he would have to convince his brother to stay a little longer at his place, and maybe even search for support from other sources. The danger of relapse was astronomically high, and if Sherlock didn't attend to his emotional health as well, Mycroft knew he would fall right back into old habits.

He wasn't truly surprised when he got into his room that evening and found him packing his bags.

-Packing already?

Sherlock did not really acknowledge his presence; he simply spoke as he kept filling his luggage with his belongings and a couple of Mycroft's as well.

-I said I'd stay one week and that's what will happen. I'm leaving tomorrow.

-I really wish you could stay a little longer, Sherlock.

Mycroft's tone was demanding, but his brother just chuckled at his suggestion.

-Now, do not dismiss my proposal so quickly. I merely worry about you, Sherlock; you know that what you are doing isn't only a matter of good intentions and a bit of luck. It takes more than a week to overcome an addiction. It takes a lifetime.

Sherlock zipped his bags closed and turned to face his brother with a smug look on his face.

-Don't get philosophical on me, Mycroft, I'm done here. You'll be seeing no more of me after tomorrow, and I expect to be seeing no more of you; I assure you that we will both be happier that way.

For the first time in that hellish week, Mycroft completely lost it.

-If you could just for once stop being such a prat and _admit _that you have a problem that is real and serious, and that you need help, it would make it so much easier for those of us trying to provide said help to actually be able to do more than just scrub your vomit from the bathroom floor.

Sherlock opened his mouth but his brother cut him before he could even pronounce the first word.

-Sherlock Holmes, I am talking to you and you will listen! Sit down!

Sherlock obediently sat down on the bed, gnashing his teeth but looking defeated.

-Detoxification is only the first stage of addiction treatment and by itself does little to change long–term drug abuse. It's only the first step, Sherlock. You need to deal with the psychological part as well, whether you want to or not. It is essential, yes, even for you.

He had seen the look in his brother's eyes, that superior look Mycroft knew only too well.

-You need to learn to function, to change your lifestyle. Do not believe for a minute that this job is going to magically erase what you've done to yourself.

Sherlock seemed torn. He appeared to be desperately looking for the right words, but just couldn't find them. He finally managed to mutter a single sentence under his breath.

-It'll be good for nothing.

-Then you have nothing to lose. You are running out of excuses, brother. I'm starting to believe you are not at all committed to this. You know, these employers of yours, they may be gullible and unknowing of your ways but I…

His gaze met his brother's eyes with an intensity he made sure Sherlock would not easily forget.

-If you start using again, Sherlock, I'll know.

Sherlock sprang to his feet.

-I will _not_ start using again.

Mycroft smiled complacently.

-Are you sure?

He didn't wait for an answer, though it was apparent that his younger brother lacked one. He handled Sherlock a small piece of paper with an address written in black ink on it and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

He didn't hear a noise coming from Sherlock's bedroom that night.


	5. Chapter 5

Thursday

Sherlock stood outside the building for at least five minutes, not being able to bring himself to enter. He felt positively ridiculous, but if doing this got Mycroft off his back he ought to give it a try. 'Addiction counseling' for crying out loud… If Lestrade could just give him a case now, he would be absolutely fine, but oh no, he had to wait a couple of months, he had to prove he was _clean_. Well, at least he didn't have to go to _group_ therapy that would have been even more disastrous. He threw his cigarette to the floor and stepped on it. He sighed in frustration and finally went in.

He didn't want to have to make small talk with anyone, so he headed directly to the seventh floor, where the doctor's office was. He even ignored the psychologist's PA that apparently couldn't take a hint and kept calling him 'sir, sir' for way too long before she realized he wasn't going to answer. He sat alone in the waiting room, tapping his fingers in the armrest of the chair. God, he hated Mycroft.

Sherlock waited in that sitting room for what it seemed ages. If that so called 'doctor' didn't call him in immediately he was going to leave. He'd deal with his brother later. Alas, just then, when Sherlock was half way into standing up, the door to his left opened and doctor and patient came out. Sherlock took a good look at his doctor and concluded he was an idiot. When the patient, a young red-head with tears all over her freckled face, left the doctor turned his eyes to Sherlock and declared

-You must be Mr. Holmes. I am Doctor Thomas. Please do come in.

With both of them inside the consult, Dr. Thomas motioned Sherlock to sit down. He complied but took his time no analyse the doctor and his office first. Wife, a couple of children, all grown up judging by the photo on his desk, tons of degrees hanging on the walls, into fishing though he hadn't indulged in that for some time… There was not much there, which Sherlock found very disappointing. He wasn't surprised though.

Dr. Thomas looked at him in the eye. Sherlock highly doubted he had any powers of deduction whatsoever but he still felt uncomfortable.

-Please tell me, Mr. Holmes, why do you think you are here?

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

-Why don't you tell me? Aren't you the doctor here?

Dr. Thomas suppressed a smile and scribbled in his notepad. Sherlock didn't like that.

-I spoke to your brother on the phone, yes, I am aware of your situation. But for the sake of therapy it would be very helpful if you just… played along.

Sherlock crossed his arms around his chest.

-I don't need therapy. I'm just here to get my brother and my employer off me.

-So your addiction has driven family and friends away?

How he got 'friends' from 'employer' has beyond him. This man was obviously idiotic.

-I don't drive people away, doctor, they leave on their own.

Oh, God. Bad choice of words. Dr. Thomas hummed and scribbled in his notebook again. Sherlock felt like a fool. There was not undoing that one, he knew. He would have to be more careful or the doctor was going to begin questioning him about his childhood and all that nonsense. He couldn't have that.

-Tell me, Sherlock…

Oh, they were on a first name basis now, how lovely.

-How are the cravings?

He wasn't going to answer that. Not honestly, anyway. Horrible, mind-wrecking, atrocious, nightmare-inducing? Made him wonder why we would want to stay alive? He'd have to find something else to describe it.

-Fine.

-I see. Why don't you tell me a little more about your problem?

Sherlock was beginning to lose it.

-It's not a problem. It wasn't anyway until I got this job offer. I was fine, I functioned. The problem is now.

-You don't know how to function without cocaine?

It was more a statement than a question. Sherlock wasn't sure of what to answer.

-I don't w_ant_to, it _worked_for me.

-Then what are you doing here?

-Haven't I just told you? Will I have to repeat myself a lot? For God's sake, I have to do it for this job, please do try to listen.

-What I'm hearing is that in order to be able to work, you need to stop using. That is functioning, I think.

-I could have done the job on drugs, I could have done it on every single drug on this planet in my system, but they just won't _let_me.

Sherlock was now a nervous wreck. He unconsciously patted his pocket for his cigarettes. He just hoped the doctor was as dumb as he seemed and hadn't noticed. Dr. Thomas went through his notes. They seemed strangely long for one session.

-I have been informed that you asked your brother for money and assistance more than once. He says he even had to take your hygiene and basic health care in his hands because you were unable to procure those for yourself.

-You'll learn not to believe everything Mycroft says.

-You were in the hospital several times too due to your drug use, I have the records here. You still believe you don't have a problem?

Sherlock bit his lip. He was torn between punching the doctor in the stomach and running outside of that hellish place or simply jumping outside the window. He tried to excuse himself once more

-It sounds much worse when you put it that way.

Dr. Thomas stood up and pointed to the door.

-Mr. Sherlock Holmes, if you don't want or need my help I recommend you step out of this office this instant. You are wasting my time and my patient's.

Sherlock recognized a cheap psychological technique when he saw one, but he still couldn't bring himself to leave the room. He lowered his eyes and twiddled his thumbs.

-Fine, I… may have a… tiny…little… problem.

He pursed his lips and looked up. The look of satisfaction in the doctor's face was positively enraging.

That was all Dr. Thomas was able to get out of him that day, so after almost and hour he sent him away with a 'take it easy on the cigarettes' that made Sherlock cringe. He had to admit it hadn't been terrible, but he hadn't exactly enjoyed himself either. Nonetheless, Sherlock decided that if was going to do this, he could at least take something out of the experience…


	6. Chapter 6

When Sherlock was finally allowed to do cases, things started to fall into place a little bit faster, it seemed.

He had somehow managed to get out of Mycroft's place, and even though he knew only too well that his brother was constantly breathing down his neck he didn't mind terribly; he had been clean for a couple of months now and wasn't planning on going back –well, not seriously thinking about it, at least, just cravings, that's all- so he wouldn't have to answer to him anymore.

Sherlock was also still on therapy, as much as he hated it. At least Mycroft was paying the bills. The doctor turned out to not be a _complete_ idiot, and according to him they were making some 'progress' but Sherlock found that cases were a much better treatment for his problem. He would get other things out of his mind when he was working, and in any case the doctor was glad that he had found a 'hobby' to entertain himself.

He had gotten an apartment of his own as well, and his most recent acquisition was his brand-new roommate. He wasn't planning on getting one, but Mycroft simply didn't want him to move out quite yet and refused to pay the rent for him. Sherlock took it as a drawback at first but it turned out John was somehow… different from other people, as normal as he looked. Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he was rather enjoying having him around. And that was a lot, coming from him.

Sherlock was sure that when John and Mycroft met, John had been informed of his roommate's… situation, so he was actually surprised for once in his life to find that he had absolutely no idea about it. After Lestrade's so-called drugs bust Sherlock became painfully aware that John had been meaning to ask him about it, and knew that he wouldn't simply let it go. When he first brought it up, John begun by saying something like that they were _friends_, apparently, and friends were supposed to _worry_. The conversation seemed endless and Sherlock wasn't really sure of why he felt so embarrassed to be talking about it with John. He had done it before, with Mycroft, Lestrade, even his doctor… but this was something else entirely.

-I don't see why this is so important to you. I have told you; it was merely a form of entertainment. It is also a thing of the past, so you do not need to worry anymore.

Sherlock sat there looking at the empty space with his violin in his hands, praying to every deity he could remember that John would magically forget about the whole thing. John didn't seem to find the right words for a while, but it didn't look as if he was dropping the matter any time soon.

-Look, Sherlock, I'm a medical man. I know these things don't simply 'go away'.

He sighed and continued.

-I just wanted to let you know that if you ever need anything…

-I don't.

-_I know _you don't,but if you ever do…

-I. _won't._

Sherlock's answer was final and apparently John got the hint. He smiled sadly and left Sherlock to his violin.

Later that same afternoon there was a knock on John's bedroom door. He opened to find Sherlock on the other side, visibly anxious about something. John was about to ask him what was wrong when with a firm 'don't talk' Sherlock grabbed him by the arm and took him hastily to his own room. John didn't dare to say a word while Sherlock opened his sock drawer and started looking for something inside it. When he finally found it he turned around to face John. His eyes were fixed on the ground when he started speaking.

-John… just, please don't say anything.

He held out his hand and put the small bag on John's open palm.

-I was not going to use it. I had it… just in case.

His gazes met at last, and John could only manage to smile and nod. When he put the bag in his pocket Sherlock even looked mildly relieved. John opened his mouth to say something but before the first syllable would come out Sherlock cut him with a 'don't'. John nodded again and walked back into his room.

When Sherlock heard the 'click' of John's door closing he allowed himself a little smile. He concluded that it was comforting to have John around, just in case.

_Fin._


End file.
